​Renee B. Drummond is a renown poetria and artist from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She is the author of: The Power of the Pen, SOLD TO THE HIGHEST BIDDER, Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight-I’ll Write Our Wrongs, and Renee’s Poems with Wings are Words in Flight. Her work is viewed on a global scale and solidifies her as a force to be reckoned with in the literary world of poetry. Renee’ is inspired by non-other than Dr. Maya Angelou, because of her, Renee’ posits “Still I write, I write, and I’ll write!”

Dedicated to:“And he spake many things unto them in parables, saying, Behold, a sower went forth to sow; And when he sowed, some seeds fell by the way side, and the fowls came and devoured them up: Some fell upon stony places, where they had not much earth: and forthwith they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: And when the sun was up, they were scorched; and because they had no root, they withered away. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns sprung up, and choked them: But other fell into good ground, and brought forth fruit, some an hundredfold, some sixtyfold, some thirtyfold. Who hath ears to hear, let him hear”(Matthew 13:3-9 KJV).

Ndaba Sibanda was a 2005 National Arts Merit Awards (NAMA) nominee. He compiled and edited Its Time (2006), and Free Fall . The recipient of a Starry Night ART School scholarship in 2015, Sibanda is the author of Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing and Football of Fools. His work is featured in the upcoming book Eternal Snow, A Worldwide Anthology of One Hundred Poetic Intersections with Himalayan Poet Yuyutsu RD Sharma scheduled for publication in Spring/Summer 2017 by Nirala Press.

Nyaope-Ruled

“That’s utter rubbish!”, she wrote.The limping athlete had won the race.

The article writer described the athleteas someone who enjoyed popular success--

even warning people that he was set to winin the future with or without limbs and eyes.

The gimpy runner was known for his loveof luxury. He had a fleet of poshy cars.

He threw lavish party after lavish party.Did he have a modicum of care in this world?

When did it become a crime to spoiloneself with fun, with overseas trips and all?

People always whispered that he had cruel villasand stashes of sick money in far foreign lands.

It was common knowledge that the athletedid not only train outside for major contests

he also frequented better-equipped health centresand hotels whenever he fell sick or had a craving.Were people jealous of the sprinter’s lifestyle? Was it their business what he bought or ate

or what kind of medical care he received?Was it at their cost? Yes, at all costs he flew out!

If he preferred better managed, fundedand equipped facilities, what was amiss?

If he decided whimsically or otherwise—to fly outand have fun or a check-up, what was wrong?

Did he have to remind them it was his money--and that he owed no citizen a life or an explanation?

Was it their business that by a strokeof miracle he had romped to victory again?

Yes again. Well, if he did not flout ruleswhy was there so much hullabaloo here?

One Facebooker agreed with True,the lady who wrote: utter rubbish.

The unemployed youth read the articlewith his critical mind and commented,

“Either you are high on a killer druglike whoonga or you suffer terribly

from psychotic episodes and delusions.Look for the nearest asylum urgently”.

​ Expectations Versus Imperfections

Nozindaba, a local journalist says she gatecrushed into one lavish regional partyheld by some national leaders and was shocked and disgusted by whatshe overheard with her innocent ears and saw with her naked eyes.

It was not because most the leaders were proudly and loudlysaying they were the unwavering worshipers of Niccolò Machiavellibehind closed doors or the first families or servant leaders in public.

One old African leader was saying to a new and young president,“So they voted us with the idea that we shouldn’t eat or thinkabout ourselves or our families first—isn’t that a height of idiocy?”

And The Fun Goes On

When the sun looks and rises with its smiling raysPositive people welcome it warmly like bridesmaidsStanding in support of the bride and the best manMaking sure the groom’s wedding day pans out wellThe bride’s gown might be blown inside-out by windOr the groom’s suit wholly dirty but the party goes on.

​

Our Leader Laughs In Many Languages

Leader: My people, hahaha asante sanaInterpreter: Our father says hahaha, and thanks you very much in KiSwahili(wink).Leader: Interpreter, I`m just laughing hahaha. Ngiyabonga.Interpreter: Our father is laughing hahaha, and thanking you in Zulu(another wink).

It Is Theirs, Please Do Not Ruin It Any Further

The future of Africa does not belong to obsessions with power and sloganeering like“Down with the West, down with the detractors, down with this and that.”Neither does it belong to the worship of lavish lifestyles and BASHES.

When bashes are held amidst a flood of awful unemployment figuresand poverty and general suffering of the citizens, then any decentAfrican citizen is bound to feel offended or to raise EYEBROWS.

No amount of sloganeering and posturing and pretenseor indeed silencing or wiping away of dissenting voiceswill rescue Africa from the socio-economic woes of the DAY.

The young groups are having a lot of unanswered questions:when will African leaders nip corruption in the bud or own upto their failures and follies and prioritise development and PEACE?

The youth want to be the game changers, the mastersof their destinies and dreams, the voices of reason--but are leaders listening to them, giving them SPACE?

What if the youth have the gift of sight to see a better Africa, a blessedcontinent whose time to become the economic and cultural powerhouseof the world is no longer a mere wet, pipe dream- but a reality of TOMORROW?

Are you going to give the youth the opportunity to take part in rebuildingand reinventing Africa so that it does not remain stuck in endless wars or povertyor remain vulnerable and amenable to neocolonialist machinations and INSTITUTIONS?

The youth are saying if it is true that the older we become the wiser we are then why dowe still have sixty-something year old, tired, clueless and useless folk masqueradingas saviours and youth leaders in some African nations or presidents whose terms EXPIRED?

Their message, their plea, their position is as simple as “nothing is for us without us.”They are saying some African leaders will tell you “we have this and that for the youthand the women” but when one looks at it realistically there is no funding but ABUSE.

It is clear that the future of Africa does not belong to the greedy geriatric dictatorsor the dinosaurs who no longer fit in with the fast-paced realities of this worldbut to the youth of substance, vision and courage, so that it moves FORWARD.

Willowy Words

The man with a sprinkling hair in head said,“You can have a coconut-oiled hair ora lotioned body that glimmers like a star,but if you don’t wash your body thoroughlyyou are as good as a rancid food eater who thinkshis mouth and tummy are the refuge for freshness”.

Zayd is a poet from Cape Town, South Africa.He is a physically disabled financial advisor in a bank who has been writing since 15 years old.His writes about his own life experience.

The Comeback Kid

​To be honest, I don't really sleep wellHalf of the population is waiting to see me failThey are better off trying to freeze hellLike two bulls going head onEvery time I fallIt only makes my chin strongUntil the referee rings the bellUntil my puffy eyes start to swellUntil I hit the groundI hear the crowd yell"Here comes the comeback kid"Give me scarsGive me painI will continue to rise againIf you have the ability to last thirty roundsThere's no reason to have your head downLike a Phoenix, I will rise from the ashAnd now I'm yelling, "Kiss my ass"A couple of left hooks and a few right jabsTo realise you really don't have it so badIf you fall, pick yourself up off the floorAnd if your spirit can't take no moreJust remember what you came here forTo show others that you are the comeback kidThe Call

I'm waiting for your callIt's like, you're the swing set and I'm the kid that fallsIt's like, the way we fightSometimes we cryWe come to blowsAnd every night the passion is thereSo it has to be rightI don't believe you when you say don't come around here no moreI won't remind you, you said we would never be apartI don't believe you when you say you don't need me anymoreI won't pretend to not love you anymoreSo don't pretend to not love me at allI'm still waiting for your callIt's like, one of those bad dreams when you can't wake upLooks like you've given up, you've had enoughBut I want more, I won't stopBecause I know eventually you'll come to your sensesI'll stand by the phone and wait for your callDon't just stand there and watch me fall

Split Personality

I do not trustSo I cannot loveI would not dare to open upI am introverted, so I hate the busTell me what do you see when you look at me?Do you see my many personalities?Can you help me?Does anybody hear me?Can they even see me?This is my realityI'll say it againI'm my only friendSometimes I question my existenceBut I know this is not the endWhy can't I just reach up and touch the sky?Why can't I spread my arms and just fly?Why can't I say this?Why can't I do that?What is it that you want from me?Tell me how to actSo I'm putting it all on the tableYou don't know me well enough to labelYou say I'm sick and I make a noiseWhen you break it downI'm just two boysTrying to blendTrying to vibeTrying to live just one lifeEveryone suffers from insanityI have a split personality

SAMIR R MTAMBAZimbabwean poet and prose writer of Malawian extraction (b. Harare, Zimbabwe, 1959). Published in many journals in the English-speaking world. Studied at the University of Malawi, Chancellor College. Briefly at Dalhousie in Nova Scotia for Graduate Studies. New Leftist by inclination. Taught in Zimbabwean high schools and the Zimbabwe Open University (ZOU) an affair he deeply repents. Grateful to be a recluse and an independent researcher.

AFRICAN SYMPHONY, SYMPHONY OF DEATH You must be from my country I see it by the tick of the soul around the eyelashes and besides you dance when you are sad You must be from my countryTCHICKAYA U TAM’SI “Presence”

​Loneliness eats my heartLike cancerous acid on the skin of dayAnd I itch for a soothing anodyneTo cool my riotous brain Thinking of life, this lifeSeeping down the barren sandLike fluid from a splintered eggDenuded into impotence by charlatansFor whom life is a mere gameWith but one big advantageFor their congenital flair for deceit in the gambleThat swindles all deceived playersInto penury and deathRobbers and lootersIn designer suitsStanding tall and debonairOver a starved cracked earth.

Those glinting white teeth,Those celebrated winning smilesExuding ostensible human warmth,Our perpetual curseThat we produce so many fine brainsOnly to destroy them in one fell swoopOf paranoid fear and envyCanonizing sycophants, fools and playboysWhile pauperizing true functionariesAbducting and gunning them downTo be interned in unmarked gravesAfter whoring their wives and daughtersPerfecting the art of beggingBy proffering the thin skullsOf orphaned urchins to the worldEvery new moth that struts the lighted stageHoodwinking citizens into swinish stuporIntoxicated by despairHeads such awkward wrecksSwimming in the wine of plundered wealthWhile children whine with hunger and disease

That search for personal gloryAgainst compatriots in the hell-go-round of want and despairWith glinting steely-knife sharp smilesTo build mammoth tombs and sitesThat straddle dry empty valleys of kings and heroesKings and heroes for themselvesAnd themselves alone and not their sad starving subjects.

This curse of the prosperity of cheats and liarsThe growl of ferine despotsIn these kingdoms of hungerAnd carnivals of deathSmall men adept at destroying small menFor the big sharks to shake their bloody handsFor jobs well done.

We have produced some of the world’s finest brains todayBut where, where are they?Where are they and their works?Where, I sayIf not in the morgues or unmarked graves?

Everywhere graves, everywhere prisonsEverywhere voluminous madhousesEverywhere charnel houses and unmarked gravesAnd the ubiquitous big begging bowlsMade of skulls of the starvingWhile speechifying at the United NationsApplauded by predatory sharks and sycophants!

Today loneliness eats up the zenith of my dayLike the cancer of poverty and hungerOn the silent mouths of the orphaned children of AfricaLaced by the haughty sceptreOf those who brag at the United NationsAbout the dignityOf leading sovereign nationsOf broken subjects and skeletonsIn school, church, the market and the charnel houseThe symphony of deathLouder and angrier than Beethoven’s Ninth!

​ THE OLD MAN AND I

I think l am unburdening his creed –saturated mindBut he scoffs at my lack of belief.

I try to clear the menacing thick forest in his mindFor his unfettered will to fillHe summons back talismans, cathedrals, mosques, shrinesAnd the dominion of their custodians.

He is puzzled by my godless existenceI am exasperated by his foolish rejection of freedom.

THIS COUNTRY IS A FEVER ​ (POEM FOR J.D. GILES IN ‘FRISCO)This country is a contagious feverAnd although you only travelled its veinsInsulated by a thick alien skinYou caught its germ in your bloodAnd so quiver with the discordant discourseOf all who are ravished by it.

I too was a mere passerbyFollowing the footprints of my fathersChasing illusions of sequins in the sandOnly to lose the clarity of visionBequeathed by the waters of my ancestral rivers and lakesForever through my sweat dropsFeeding the thirsty hot sands of exile and betrayal.

My own shadow is now a sphinxWhose cryptic questions I cannot answerTo win passage into the horizon, retreat and reprieveTo where the spirits danceThe totemic dance of destinyHand in hand with immortality.

Though our congenital trespasses and karmas are differentWe are, by complicity, unitedVictims of wander maniaThe crime of presence, having been here or there once or many times.

Thus even though I melt in this fever hereYou cannot escape the rhythm of my death throes over thereFor this country is a terrible feverThat afflicts all adventurous birds of passageTo all corners of the world. KUNAPIPI, JOURNAL OF POSTCOLONIAL LITERATURE, VOLUME XXX NUMBER 2 2008

PERPETUALLY LATE

​I met this old man uptown a while ago, I remember.He was going up and I down.He was relaxed and I quick, my blood whipping up the sapling I amDreading the idea of being late, of being thereAfter everybody else-The streets drained of all my friends.

And here I meet him again, the old manHolding all the prizes that we covet in life.How he manages these mazes of streetsIs more than I will ever know. But he is hereBefore me again- I am going down and he upAgain and again-My head drained of all thought except fear of what is to come.

It is so unsettling that somehowHe manages to be there before me all the time, this old man.For no matter how quick blooded I amOnly a few minutes sees him beyond the mazes of muddledStreets before I get there or anything of value.

TODAY IS ENOUGH BOTHER AS IT IS

​Today is enough bother as it is.Victims of dogged habitWe simply put seed in the dry ground and wait.

Precocious children have become such a burden.We cannot offer answers to their questionsAs we grapple with the heat of today.

Growing up is such a distant countryBeyond now, beyond reach, beyond todayElusive as fluffy dreamsFurther than AmericaFurther than MozambiqueThan Christmas, Christmas bells and cakesA mirage in the basketThe sash of silk and the jingling of coinsIn a beggar’s dreams.

Only ghosts move up and down the streetsLaughing and whooshing with a real sense of purposeAnd even really dying when it comes to that,Stealing, crying, loving and fightingImitating life as it was really lived onceWhen people were still complacent enough to believeIn things like the future, a new year, messiahsOr somewhere cosy and sunnyOnce upon a time.

Phyllis Labrie Morneau was born in 1953 in Manchester, NH and was blessed with a loving Mom and Dad and 2 wonderful Sisters. She has been happily married to her husband, Rich, for almost 45 years and is blessed with 3 sons, 1 daughter, 1 daughter-in-law, and 7 grandchildren. The desire to write a personal memoir for her family, especially her grandchildren, was the reason for writing her 1st book "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love". She wanted to share her family's story and their love and also share God's story and His amazing love, too. It was originally published in May 2011. Her 2nd book "My Season of Writing" was also written with her grandchildren in mind. It is a collection of Bible Bedtime Stories, Poems, Prayers, and Songs written during a recent season of her life. Her grandchildren enjoy reading before going to bed so have enjoyed reading the stories and poems from each book.

​ WRITING YOUR MEMOIR . . .Many people have asked me how I wrote my book - how did I even start?Well, it first began as a small seed - a desire from deep within my heart.

I simply wanted to share with my grandchildren the love of our family,Through stories of their ancestors recorded for them as a loving legacy.

The first thing to do in writing your own story is to pick out a simple theme,It might be easy for you or it could be more dificult than it would actually seem.

Love was the theme I chose but then should "Love" be simply the title as such?Maybe "Mem's Memorable Memoir" but then thought that would be a little much?

I chose the title "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love" - that would be the name,And, after 9 months of writing and sharing from my heart, I would never be the same.

I began by asking the Lord to lead me, guide me, and help me each step of the way,He was faithful as I trusted Him to give me the words that I should write each day.

My desire was that the story of our love for God, family, and country would be known,But, more importantly, that God's story of His unconditional love for all would be shown.

The process of creating the book began with an idea - a small seed or desire inside of me,Growing over time, day by day, until the time that the book was finally ready for all to see.

I was very passionate about writing and could easily spend many hours losing all track of time,And I can make a short story long so I'm happy that I didn't write the 280 pages of my book in rhyme.

However, there were times that I was so busy contemplating more eloquent words to share with you,That I didn't take time for breakfast, lunch, and then what would I make for dinner? I didn't have a clue!

There was no time for cleaning the house or using the new vacuum my husband had bought for me,All my time was spent sitting in my recliner, writing, then getting up, I found I couldn't bend my knee!

My husband came home from work and saw that I was trying to walk around but with difficulty,So, with his typical quick wit and wisdom, quipped "Was I actually writing my own obituary"?

Being the obsessive-compulsive-perfectionist that I am, I asked "To be so focused - is it a crime"?However, I understood his concern that I might be going downhill as I tried to meet my dead-line!

Hopefully, this inspiring poem and tale of the adventure writing my story of love for my dear family,Will not stop you from writing your own story and leaving for them a cherished and precious legacy.

WHEN YOU RETIRE . . .

Every day is a holiday;No longer needing to work;Now you have time to play.

Time to watch movies with my hubby,And play a very frustrating memory game;Where we recognize an actor or actress,But then can't remember his or her name!

Another daily frustrating memory game,Where I frequently rush around to and fro;Searching everywhere for my eye glasses,Wondering, "Where in the world did they go"?

Having finally found my eye glasses,Taking time to read is my heart's desire;Reading the Bible and also inspirational books,Helps to fan the flame in my soul into a holy fire.

No longer content with short and rushed prayer,I now have the time to just sit still before the Lord;Quiet, waiting,and listening for His gentle whisper,Then praising God that I am so beloved and adored.

There is also more time to spend with my husband,With a good cup of coffee, we can just sit and talk;Taking the time to focus and really listen to each other,We, holding hands, go on our daily brisk 1-hour walk.

We also take time each day to do something by ourselves,My husband loves to work outside - mowing, weeding, pruning;While I love to work inside the home - cooking and also cleaning,Then, taking time to express and share what's in my heart by writing.

Reflecting on the years that have gone by and how blessed I have been,I now realize God's love was always pursuing me when I truly take a look;His amazing and unconditional love for me and for my family and my friends,I shared when I wrote "From My Heart to Yours: A Legacy of Love" - my book.

Recently, I wrote some Bible bedtime stories, poems, prayers, and songs,To share with my precious grandchildren - that was the main reason;Doing something significant is my goal rather than to be a success,During my retirement years - a wonderful, exciting, and joyful season!

ODE TO MY HIGH-EFFICIENCY WASHING MACHINE

You might think it strange to write a love poem,To something so mundane as a washing machine;But in the daily household task of doing laundry,It has been a big help getting our clothes clean, clean, clean!

Our old washing machine would sometimes spin,But sometimes, for reasons unknown, it would not;So, often-times, when the machine beeped that it was done,I looked inside and a heavy wet soggy mess was what I got!

I complained to my poor husband each time it failed to spin,And mumbled my sad and frustrating tale of woe;With a heavy sigh, I would set the cyle to spin again and again,Grumbling, "Doing laundry this way each day is slow, slow, slow!

I'm happy now with our new high-efficiency washing machine,And, when shopping for detergent, buy only high-efficiency Tide;It has electronic sensors that weigh the heaviness of the clothes,And a glass lid so I can watch the clothes as they spin around inside.

You will hear noises that are different from a regular washing machine,There is clicking and humming and whirring - a strange variety of sounds;And I caution to not put your son's waterproof rain jacket in your washer,For then it will spin at such a high speed that it will shake and violently pound.

My ode to my new high-efficiency washing machine has come to an end,In the daily task of doing laundry, It has become my new best friend;Doing laundry effiently is important to me as a happy housewife,Or maybe, just maybe --- I . . . need . . . to . . . get . . . a . . . life!

HOPE AND ENCOURAGEMENT (based on the 23rd Psalm)

THE LORD IS MY SHEPHERD . . .We can trust in an unchanging God, a still point, in the midst of a turbulent world,We can trust in His love and goodness, in spite of the evil that has been unfurled.

We are His sheep, depending on our Shepherd, to carry us with strength and might,Leading us on the right path, with His truth and His holiness, shining its bright light.

I SHALL NOT WANT . . .What we have in God is far greater than all the material stuff we could get in life,Realizing "godliness with contentment is great gain" will save us from much strife.

Surrendering to our Shepherd - we have grace for every sin, direction for every turn,A candle in the darkness, an anchor for every storm - Lord. help us understand and learn.

HE MAKES ME LIE DOWN IN GREEN PASTURES . . .As Shepherd, God is in charge and leads us, His sheep, to a place of peace and rest,He will care for us, protect and provide for our every need, as we trust His way is best.

When our anxious thoughts turn and stay on Him, He will keep us in His perfect peace,With our eyes fixed, not on what is seen but on what is unseen, then all our worries cease.

HE LEADS ME BESIDE STILL WATERS . . .He provides the pure living water of His Word to quench our thirst and refresh us as we go,He also promises His grace to help us no matter where we travel each day, going to and fro.

We can trust that God is in control, promising to be a Lamp for our feet each and every day,Even in the midst of life's mishaps and tragedies, w do not fear but trust His will and His way.

HE RESTORES MY SOUL . . .In the midst of failing health, broken hearts, and empty wallets, He will restore our hope,In the midst of complaining people, demanding bosses, and busyness, He will help us cope.

Our Shepherd rescues us from loneliness, despair, pain, and confusion when He does appear,From life's jungle, with so many scary beasts threatening us, He guides us safely out of there.

HE LEADS ME ON PATHS OF RIGHTEOUSNESS . . .Along the narrow winding trail, up a steep hill, to a cross, where His life He sacrificed and gave,Because of His love for His straying and lost sheep, His desire is to seek, pursue, find, and save.

When we wander, He finds us; when we fall, he carries us; when are attacked, He will defend,When we are hurt, He heals us; when we are helpless, he helps and protects as a trusted Friend.

FOR HIS NAME'S SAKE . . .God loves to hear us call him Father when we come before him each day to spend time and pray,Pouring out our hearts before Him and also desiring to bring glory to His name each and every day.

He is Jehovah-Raah, our caring Shepherd, and also Jehovah-Jireh, the One who does always provide,He is Jehovah-Shalom, the Lord is peace, and also Jehovah-Nissi, our refuge where we are safe inside.

YEA, THOUGH I WALK THROUGH THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH . . .Our Shepherd gathers us in His arms and carries us so close to His heart on the narrow trail,Sometimes the trek is long, the path is dangerous, and the valley is dark but He will never fail.

But there will come a time for each of us when our Shepherd will lead us on our last and final journey,Even then we can have peace for He promises that He has been busy preparing a place for you and for me.

I WILL FEAR NO EVIL . . .When we constantly hear news of so many terrible evil acts happening and we don't know what to do,It is then that we need to focus, not on the scary circumstances, but instead focus all our thoughts on You.

When anxious thoughts of what might happen next threaten our peace and bring turmoil and unrest,It is then that we need to cast down all fearful imaginings and trust Almighty God to care for us best.

THOU ART WITH ME . . .Lord, You sit upon the stars and make Your home in the deep, but You are also right here with me,You rule in Heaven above and also on the earth below - knowing and realizing this sets us all free.

No matter what we face in this life -sickness, unemployement, loneliness - You will never leave, In the midst of the terror of night and the arrows of the day - we can find rest when we do believe.

YOUR ROD AND YOUR STAFF, THEY COMFORT ME . . .Our Shepherd knows each of his sheep by name - He sees each face and He knows each story,He has written our names on the palms of His hands - for His tender love we give Him all glory.

His rod does prod and direct us where to go and His staff does protect bringing comfort and hope,Knowing God as our faithful Father and Shepherd, even in these scary times, we can still cope.

YOU PREPARE A TABLE BEFORE ME IN THE PRESENCE OF MY ENEMIES . . .God is the Shepherd, Who provides; the Lord, Who provides; and the Voice in the storm bringing peace,Trusting Him to care for us and for all of our needs - our turmoil, our troubles, and our worries do cease.

He has called us to Himself and invited us to His table to sit at a permanent and prominent place,"In Christ, God has given us every spiritual blessing in the Heavenly world" by his mercy and grace.

YOU ANOINT MY HEAD WITH OIL . . .With high hopes and a humble heart, we come before God to pray to our trusted and best Friend,Bringing him all our struggles, our disappointments, our hurts and wounds for his healing oil to tend.

In spite of all the terror alerts and the evil threats constantly flooding our thoughts and our soul,We can come to God to lift our heavy burdens and restore us and make all our hearts truly whole.

MY CUP RUNS OVER . . .God blesses us with so many gifts of His love - there are beautiful sunrises and glorious sunsets at night,There are majestic mountains, the fragrance of flowers, the melody of birds, and the twinkling stars so bright.

Our hearts are not large enough for all the wonderful blessings that God wants to coninually give,He will pour and pour out blessings until they overflow our cup so that we may truly abundantly live.

SURELY GOODNESS AND MERCY SHALL FOLLOW ME ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE . . .Goodness to supply for our every need - God promises us and on that we can depend and be sure,Mercy to forgive our every sin - God promises to forgive and pardon us and make our hearts pure.

God makes sure promises of goodness and mercy that will follow us all the days of our life,His abiding presence enables us to live safe and secure without doubts and worries and strife.

AND I WILL DWELL IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD FOREVER . . .When we feel restless deep inside, there is a sense that this earth is not our true home,We feel a longing deep inside our hearts that is not satisfied no matter where we roam.

God's Word says "Our true homeland is Heaven" and "He has set eternity in the hearts of men",God's Promises give hope and encouragement to us on our Heavenly journey. Amen and Amen.​

CINDERELLA - MY LIFE STORY

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago in a land far, far away (in Manchester, NH)There lived a young girl, about 12 years old, who watched the tale of Cinderella on TV;It was a fairy tale story of a young maiden who was degraded, her beauty undiscovered,But, in the midst of the sorrow and ashes of her life, she longed for more, just like me.

In Cinderella's story, her mother died, and later her father married a lady with 2 daughters,Sadly, her father soon died, then her stepmother and stepsisters caused her much strife;I didn't have a wicked stepmother for my Mom and Dad were devoted and loved me always,I also didn't have 2 mean stepsisters for my sisters cared and shared during all my young life.

But I did have a villain in my story - the devil - who put unkind and cruel words in my mind,Thoughts that I was not good enough or was not pretty enough that caused me much pain;I also had the world outside and the flesh inside that would enslave me at times with their lies,To be accepted by the world, I became a people-pleaser, and to satisfy my flesh, I became vain.

Like Cinderella, I wasn't happy with myself or my life, and longed for something more,Someone who would come along, see my true value, and then desire a life with me;Lifting me from the sorrow and the ashes, to a new life of hope and peace and joy,Carefree and beautiful, transformed by his love, we would dance in perfect harmony.

I did meet my Prince Charming, my dear husband, whose love I truly treasure,And, after a beautiful Wedding, we were soon blessed with a precious baby boy;As a young girl, I would often dream of being a loving wife and a caring mother,But, in spite of my perfect life, something was missing, I felt restless with little joy.

One day, I cried out to God and asked Him to please come and help me,I surrendered all of myself to Him, including my fear and also my pride;He took the sorrow and ashes of my life and cleansed my heart of all sin,Jesus became my Savior and my Lord, Who lives in my heart - right inside.

There are still times that I listen to the devil's lies or to the world's clamor,There are times that I listen to my own selfish flesh - thinking it's all about me;But Jesus, because of His love, pursues me, even when I betray and turn away,Until finally, with my guilt and regret, I repent and run to God and am set free.

Like Cinderella, I was an orphan in God's eyes, until my Father God adopted me,I was lost in my turmoil and sin, until Jesus, my Prince and Hero, to my rescue came;I was filled with fear, until the Holy Spirit, came into my heart with His great power,They replaced my sorrow with joy and my fears with peace - I would never be the same.

I now dance in the arms of my God, Who leads and guides my every step,His unconditional love is the magic that transforms me - the key to my story;I am His beloved daughter, His beautiful Princess, His precious child - so adored,I will live "happily ever after" - being changed into His image - from glory to glory.

A PASSION FOR LIVING

In this world in which we live,With all the turmoil, chaos, and stress;With so much sin without and within,How do we cope in the midst of such a mess?

We can't turn a blind eye or a deaf ear,To the terrible news from each new day;But we can and should take the time,To humbly kneel before God and pray.

When we are overwhelmed with a heavy burden,We need to cast all of our cares on Him;His yoke is easy and our burden will be light,With Him our life is no longer so dark and so grim.

Life today can surely be hectic and busy,It is a daily struggle just to survive;But with the Lord to lead and guide us,We can actually thrive and feel fully alive.

What are you passionate about?What makes your heart joyfully sing?What brings you delight and happiness?What do you long for and desire more than anything?

Do you enjoy the beauty of nature,And taking a brisk and refreshing walk?Or do you prefer a good cup of hot coffee,With a dear trusted friend and just sit and talk?

Maybe you find much pleasure,Reading a romance novel or a great mystery?Or maybe an inspiring story or fairy tale,Where there is a brave hero for all to see?

Do you enjoy caring for your home,And love to decorate it with such zeal?With great music playing in the background,And then create for your family a delicious meal?

Maybe you enjoy quiet time to sit and write,From the depths of your heart you express;By either song, or prose, or poetry,Your love, your hope, your joy, and gratefulness.

Do you have the gift and talent of a great voice?You can sing and make melody to the Lord;Do you enjoy dancing for Him with such glee?There is much freedom in knowing we are adored.

Maybe you have the wonderful ability,To draw and paint and create great art;Our world and that of others is brighter,When we do everything with all of our heart.

Another person might find their special talent,Is simply to put a smile on someone's sad face;Just by an act of kindness and compassion,Or a little humor at the right time and place.

Take the time to look inside the garden of your heart,And see what kind of seeds are growing inside of there;Then remove all the weeds, the stones, and the thorns,Oh, the fruit of love, joy, and peace -There is nothing else that can compare!

There is so much we can say and do,To dispel the darkness with our light;Lord, help us to shine Your great love,On all the world and keep it burning bright.

A PASSION FOR LIVING

In this world in which we live,With all the turmoil, chaos, and stress;With so much sin without and within,How do we cope in the midst of such a mess?

We can't turn a blind eye or a deaf ear,To the terrible news from each new day;But we can and should take the time,To humbly kneel before God and pray.

When we are overwhelmed with a heavy burden,We need to cast all of our cares on Him;His yoke is easy and our burden will be light,With Him our life is no longer so dark and so grim.

Life today can surely be hectic and busy,It is a daily struggle just to survive;But with the Lord to lead and guide us,We can actually thrive and feel fully alive.

What are you passionate about?What makes your heart joyfully sing?What brings you delight and happiness?What do you long for and desire more than anything?

Do you enjoy the beauty of nature,And taking a brisk and refreshing walk?Or do you prefer a good cup of hot coffee,With a dear trusted friend and just sit and talk?

Maybe you find much pleasure,Reading a romance novel or a great mystery?Or maybe an inspiring story or fairy tale,Where there is a brave hero for all to see?

Do you enjoy caring for your home,And love to decorate it with such zeal?With great music playing in the background,And then create for your family a delicious meal?

Maybe you enjoy quiet time to sit and write,From the depths of your heart you express;By either song, or prose, or poetry,Your love, your hope, your joy, and gratefulness.

Do you have the gift and talent of a great voice?You can sing and make melody to the Lord;Do you enjoy dancing for Him with such glee?There is much freedom in knowing we are adored.

Maybe you have the wonderful ability,To draw and paint and create great art;Our world and that of others is brighter,When we do everything with all of our heart.

Another person might find their special talent,Is simply to put a smile on someone's sad face;Just by an act of kindness and compassion,Or a little humor at the right time and place.

Take the time to look inside the garden of your heart,And see what kind of seeds are growing inside of there;Then remove all the weeds, the stones, and the thorns,Oh, the fruit of love, joy, and peace -There is nothing else that can compare!

There is so much we can say and do,To dispel the darkness with our light;Lord, help us to shine Your great love,On all the world and keep it burning bright.

BEHOLDING AND REFLECTING GOD'S GLORY

The Heavens declare God's glory, the skies proclaim the work of His hands,Nature speaks of our magnificent God in all it's varied and beautiful array;My prayer is that my life will showcase, not me, but my awesome God,May I seek to behold and reflect Your glory, Lord, each and every day.

I pray that you, O God, will open and unveil my eyes,And part the curtains of Heaven that I might truly see;Your holiness and Your great love and goodness,Your captivating beauty and Your awesome majesty.

When I focus my eyes only on You, my God,Then my life becomes less about me;You are the center and my first priority,I'm no longer bound by self but am set free.

Free to boast only of You and all You do for me,Your love is so compassionate and so kind;Your power pursues, rescues, and saves,So many reasons to praise that I can find.

You are always with me and are for me,When I am at peace and when I am in distress;I sing praise to You, my Almighty God,You alone are my refuge and my fortress.

Even when the circumstances of life are difficult,I can still praise You and reflect Your glory;By persevering in faith through adversity and pain,My testimony of trusting God is the key to my story.

I live and abide in You, my God,I exist and was created for Your pleasure;Your unconditional love, grace, and mercy,Are my heart's absolute greatest treasure

Every day of Jesus' life revealed His Father's glory,We should seek to imitate Him and do the same;In the joyful good times and in the painful hard times,We need to honor and magnify God's holy name.

All these words that I write are to reflect Your glory,They flow from my heart that seeks to express;The depth of my love for You, my Savior and Lord,I sing a song to You of praise and gratefulness.

So let me behold and reflect Your glory, O Lord,Let Your love and Your goodness be a great light;Dispelling the darkness of our turbulent world,May it shine on You and may it keep burning bright.

Thomas Locicero’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Roanoke Review, Boston Literary Magazine, Long Island Quarterly, Riverrun, The Good Men Project, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Jazz Cigarette, Quail Bell Magazine, and Rat’s Ass Review, among other journals. He resides in Broken Arrow, OK.

Early Death (for Thomas James)

The early deaths of parents make the childa madman or a poet; perhaps both,for mutually exclusive they are notbut travel along the same grain of wood,buffing it with their feet till it is dustand all that remains is damned potential,but let us not forsake the brilliant start,for few who’ve finished hope to fare as well,who’ve captured yet the space just north of hell.

Calverton in December (for Rosario Bucaro)

Though the peculiar white sun, lazy and thin,reveals itself, albeit feeble and frail,none of us can remember being so cold;that it is seen at all is its testament.I know little about the ceremony,having seen it only once at my father’sservice, but I know enough not to rushthe priest. He speaks in a soft monotonewith a nasal accent; a drop of liquidhas iced up on the corner of one of hisnostrils. His gloveless hands do not leave theblack leather Bible from which he reads out ofthe Book of Psalms and, later, from John’s Gospel.We discreetly shimmy to avoid frostbite.I have not visited Calverton since myfather was buried here five years ago.He died in August, which is bearably hotout east on Long Island, but this Decembereven the snow and the wind seem to becomplaining. The man we are burying,who would have been my father-in-law had helived just eight more months, deserves to be honored.So many of us imitate the frigidtemperature, turning taciturn, and concernedwith time rather than the elegiac words.We whisper of the warm limo, still running.The only ones who seem content on this dayare the soldiers, who stand at attention,still and not shivering, one of whom willplay Taps while others shoot their gun saluteand still others triangular-fold a flag.As I watch them, I am struck by my shame.What a small sacrifice it is to stand coldwith every drop of my blood in my veins,with all my limbs intact and hopes and dreams safe.Somewhere, a soldier is colder than I.My indignation is now resignation,so I give honor where honor is due:to them, the priest, and to my father-in-law,who lived his life without recognition,who will rest alongside the honorable.

Foray

A foray into the unknowndoes not necessarily haveto be calamitous. Necessarily.It was birth. From the dawnof man, billions of women,with full disclosure and fullexpectations, have willinglychosen to participate in aspawning, a breeding,a procreation. As amateurs.More than willing, they areeager, enthusiastic. Theytell their family and a closefriend or two before the12-week mark; others after.They are overwhelmed bylove. They hear heartbeats,see ultrasounds, marvel at4-D images, think of names,all the while stretching to makeroom for a growing body. Butthey know that pain is on itsway, and they simply welcome it,accepting it as an evidence of lifelike brain function and breathing.Some are shy. They got this wayin the dark, discreet as nuns,but not when they are in labor.It is difficult. Nothing wonderfullymade is easy. But the processhas simple steps: spread, breathe,push. Still, Vicki died giving birth,and Michelle. One child survived,the other did not. The survivorchild is a mother now. An actof pleasure leads to pain, thenleads to pleasure, but not always,not necessarily. Thus the foray.Consider the synonyms: expedition,venture, attack, assault, raid, incursion.

William

I watched them pierce his little body,which, by now, was translucent,black veins spider-webbing this wayand that, a map most fear to travelalone, and so he will not be alone.He is all flinch and moan, no words,and I am silent, thanking the painfor convincing me that he is stillalive. He is braver than I, I think.I want my veins to remain green,my weight to cushion my bones,to know how he, so frail, can measureup to death, but I could do withoutthe knowledge, the image. How much is oneyear worth? Were I the owner of allthe cattle on all the hills, I would sell themone by one to the highest bidder. For him,I would even consider giving them away.Were he my son, I would count myselfamong the cattle, begging to be purchased,begging to be taken. Begging.

Without Grace or Mercy

​If God were to look down on His creationWithout grace or mercy, and I alone knew,How unrecognizable would I become to you!“Where,” you would ask, “did your humor go?”“Why won’t you undress with the lights on?”“Why won’t you make love to me?”“What has happened to your poetry?”I would spare you of this knowledge toProtect you from the end of the world.In time, however, I suspect I would get usedTo Him the way actors no longer see the cameras,And I would come to admit that anythingGraceless and merciless, even God,Especially God, is worthless.And I would return to you, and youWould receive me with grace and mercy,You who is not God; you who will notUndress with the lights on.

Clemencio Montecillo Bascar was a former Professor and Vice President for Corporate Affairs of the Western Mindanao State University. He is a recepient of various local, regional, and national awards in songwriting, playwriting, poetry, and public service. Several of his poems had been published in international literary magazines and journals such as, Foliate Oak , BRICKrhetoric, About Place, Torrid Literature, Mused-theBellaOnline Lietrary Review, and The Voices Project. He had written and published by the Western Mindanao State University two books of poetry, namely; "Fragments of the Eucharist" and "Riots of Convictions." In the Philippines, some of his poems appeared in the such magazines as Women's, MOD, and Chick. At present, he writes a column in the Zamboanga Today daily newspaper and resides at 659 Gemini Street, Tumaga, Zamboanga City, Philippines. He is married to the former Miss Melinda Climaco dela Cruz and blest with three children, Jane, Lynnette, and Timothy James. ​​

LEGACY OF THE SUNSET

​the daily sorties of helicopters are not something to worry about; they happen as frequently as one sees a funeral march in a poverty stricken and over-crowded habitat; so what is there to be scared of? death is a way of life around here; there is no secret about this ultra lucrative business of the day; if in doubt, you can always do a quick verification check in the nearest coffin maker's workshop.just a few seconds ago, two helicopters passed by so close to our rootops heading toward an unknown destination for the customary and standard military missions: provide air support for their attacking or retreating comrades; extract wounded or dead fellow combatants; drop ammunitions and food supplies to sustain a raging gun battle against all enemies of the state; provide air transport for beheaded or recued kidnap victims; or do reconnaissance just to insure that the sovereignty of the state is fully protected and preserved from both external and internal threats.it's a pity, there are no medals of valor in heaven nor hero's welcome at its gates. do you think st. peter should be impeached for being insensitive to the psychological needs of our knights in shining armor? but it is almost a certainty that it would not prosper with the presence of the super majority in God's domain; besides, this kind of political treachery is spiritually verboten, most particularly during the passover.but why this gory day-to-day, hour-to-hour, and in extreme cases, moment-to-moment blood-letting ritual in this land of pearls? don't you find it odd, revolting, and paradoxical that people in comfort zones and positions of power and influence continuously, joyfully, and luxuriously live in peace and security while their brothers and sisters in the hinterlands are constantly helpless, hopelessly drenched in blood, paralyzed in terror, and choked in abject destitution and misery? don't they realize how long this scourge has been going on? immemorial, my friend, immemorial. surely, what has been going on for centuries in our country is just a war game and it's not subject to prescription of any kind; worst, there are no signs that it's going to abate or end in our lifetime. the opposite seems to enjoy the higher likelihood.but make no mistake, my friend, this perpetual bloodbath is for real just like august 13, 1898 for the capitulation of our freedom and homeland. it might interest you to know that fakery and treason are the foundation of our independence and sovereignty.no doubt, we have arleady mastered the art of perpetual war. thanks to the parasites of the west.

bric-a-brac and oddities

frankly, i don't know how to deal with these two felines doing their thing noisily in the post summer moonlight; will somebody please do the kindness of advising this couple to be more discreet and moderate in their act of love? they have become indulgently demonstrative and disturbingly unmindful in expressing their affection to each other that it has graduated into a seasonal public scandal on our rooftops; but wait a minute, it seems proliferation of cats has an upside; there are no more rats pestering us; if this is true, then these cats in heat deserve green cards for unlimited romance anytime and wherever they want.by the way,how do i treat a mendicant carrying a piece of paper authorizing him to go around the neighborhood to demand for coins? is beggarism now a respectable way of life? what about david splattering goliath with mad? has gawkiness become a cutting edge platform to become an instant rock star? some say this is explicit jungle conduct; others however, believe there's nothing objectionable about bad-mouthing a giant in a summit of equals; anyway it's an essential element in producing blockbuster movies; it too, is a universal source of hilarious entertainment especially when mixed with green jokes by standout comedians; forgive meif i become too skeptical and suspicious of any stranger strolling aimlessly in my habitat; helpfulness is no longer a social grace around this block; ask that half naked old man sitting on that driftwood by the wayside; he will tell you the reason why; he is our most reliable spy; a hermit says there's no substitute for watchfulness nowadays if you want to live a minute longer in this long embattled and ravaged aboriginal village; see that juvenile local soaked in his own blood? he is the latest victim of the toxic smoke from a backyard-grown killer grass.ceremonial flybys?don't worry about those frequent flybys involving caucasians; they are just ceremonial air shows; you know, like the bald eagles performing collateral but precision flights; there's nothing to worry about security; it's kept under control by our elite legions all the time; haven't you noticed that the enemies are now constantly on the run? i swear by all the stars in space that our forces have never lost a battle yet under my command.no wonder, war never ends; good business as usual and nothing has changed since 5-19- 1899.

Md. Khaled Hosen was born in 1987 in Comilla, Bangladesh. He is a prolific poet, researcher and social activist whose writing have been published in many national and international publications that include Magazine, books and international journals. Khaled currently lives in Kuala Lumpur. He graduated from the University of Dhaka in the department of Political Science and now currently studying MHSc at the International Islamic University Malaysia (IIUM) in the similar discipline. During his early education, he fell in love with the poetic world. He has been exposed to Sufi and mystic poems like Iqbal, Rumi, Sadi, Hafiz, and Omar Khayyam. His poems published at the Clairvoyance magazine and the Book “Be the Hero” and many poems are waiting for publication in different Magazines and journals. His research concentration is on Islam and politics, terrorism, foreign policy and human rights. Khaled Hosen is a believer of the universality of humanism in poetry rather the ornamental imagination. He can be reach at Khaled.du502@gmail.com

Beyond The Horizon

Why you are so extreme?Why you are so radical?Open your eyes see the world,So bright, so pleasant thus wonderful!The blossoms in the paradiseThe blowing streams in the earthThe music the cadence and the delicate song visible all aroundThe brighten stars in the sky appreciate! What’s more? Watch everything smilesIn the event that you know how to cherishWe come to you amplified our benevolent handsTo deconstruct your creeds, your convictions, your idealsTo remake your existence with congruity, peace, equityTogether we profess the promising sermonWe affirm to make youBeyond the horizon.

Have a Beautiful Mind

Dogma is not a solution rather a false delusion for true understanding the human motion Open your heart, be the liberal and take the option. You may not be always right but the option helps you to find the light.Give up extremism give up the fight give up radicals give up fright. Let think you are a human kind!Why you kill innocent people innocent child? You lost money! Health! Resources! or anything what you like!No! You have everything everything right If you have a beautiful mind.

The Roots of Terrorism

Discover the secret of blood and tears the shrouded torment the power of fears the sanctuaries and evil dividers there is a secret sea the wiping rivers.The deprivation from the human rights is the deviation from the brilliant lines after the Sun the obscure dusks slaughtering him with impervious battles.Uncover heterogeneity the contention races, color, classes, traditions hinder the human pride superiors, inferiors, unequaled uppers and lowers haves and haves notthe covetousness for influence the desire for riches the intuition for strengths all are foe constant factors.

Jeff Wysel is a retired technical writer for a large insurance company. He resides in Cincinnati, Ohio with his significant other Caren along with two of the world’s nastiest West Highland terriers. Besides writing poetry and short fiction, he created and maintains the totally fictitious New Hudson Exit website (www.newhudsonexit.org). He is a lifelong resident of the Midwest and graduated from The Ohio State University.

The Third Recollection Of Vester Presley On His Nephew Elvis

A Half A Pound Of Bacon

He is a puppet shoved across the stageon trembling hands and drunken legsanother day ends the same old waylost in time and slick clichés.The wheeling, churning, the tumbling downslow as dawn begins to glowwith Mary’s bacon, grits and buttered rollshe sits and listens to the radiobuck owens strums and softly singsthen coffee, pie and Dexedrine.

Ginger smells of alcoholVester sloughs and shakesVernon drinks his GeritolMary shapes the bread to bake

Piddle twaddle with Gingeras she floats about the roomsongs he sung are restless memoriesweary strangers that make him achefor coffee, smokes and Dexedrine.

At Homer Hesterly he swooned and dippedthrough hungry hands that weep and prayagainst your breasts his lips slip and moanhis eyes ignite the ancient liesburied deep between your thighsand light fires that set ablazehis arms and cock and legsdiving low he swings and swaystouch me touch mekiss my lipsthe winds blow the fire to the starswetgasping for breathkiss

Nixon Unending

Am I too old to see the stars?I sit and listen and listen hardbut only noise do I ever hearsmashing drums, screeching guitarsin songs whose wordsI can never understand

Yet beyond the awful noise some power glowsA dirty mensch if there ever was oneI smell his scent foul and strongthe kind that makes girls shiver and shake(not Pat)Not right! Not right!But still – if you could bottle his stuffI would be kingyea girls for sure all slick and ripebut huge coliseums that explode and singDick! Dick!I would be king!

For him, there is only musicblack blues, white blues and Stringbean Tomhe loves it allsongs sing in his head all day longin his sleeprhyming his dreamsdancing in the dawn

When he feels the beatlightening flows from fingers to feetspirit flying through the skypast angels, gods explodingthen he singsinto the stars.

Chet Huntley Died From Cigarettes

The old pictures hardly hidethe hollow sadness of her eyesnever here, looking downor through some distant crowdshe mourns

Vernon, when he is there,looks confused, a Tupelo dusterwandering around Patterson Avenuein a seersucker suitsmiling like a goonthe camera clicks and flashesVernon caught eyes wide in surpriseGladys tired, preoccupied

Obituary

Vester Presley

Uncle of Elvis Presley known as “Uncle Vester”.He was the longtime guard at the gates of Graceland.Vester created three recollections on Elvis Presley The First Recollection 1959 The Second Recollection (lost) 1965 The Third Recollection 1982

Death: Died January 17, 1997 in Shelby County, Tennessee, United StatesCause of death: heart failure

BurialForest Hill Cemetery MidtownMemphis, Shelby County, Tennessee, United States

The Lovely Girl In The Back Of The Room

A lovely girl in the back of the roomhead down, rooted in her bookswelled and drew within her breast his eyesleaving the room empty of sightnaked - where does he hide?Found outhe wraps his arms around her shouldersand stares into eyes that are a jumble of stars and black holesshe turns transformedand in a swoosh, flits awayleaving only a mossy scentback to her bookin the back of the room.

Lungotevera

The Tiber holds its Prati closedreamy in the eveningolives, sun seeds and cheap Italian alcohol scent the airchildren run and dodge between squat bumperssigning secret loves and dour prayersagainst pale concrete walls and water rippling mirrorsblack habits shuffle between soccer ballssloughing piety against the groundnose snug, purloined, scarlet slashagainst the river’s edge.

The day renews,the Prati preens and shinesas sunrise cleans the air andlights the path between my feetdown down the stone walls down where thecreaky river lumbers in morning’s nascent warmth.

It is six amthe black trail hugs the riverjutting in and out between mooring ropes and twine.High above, the Lungotevere rumblesstreams of cars plod through a tedious steeplechaseof worn pendulums [asphalt] and tired treeshard fractious soundsreflected by the street back into the sky;here, though, below the steep stone wallssoft morning light widens the path,the quiet broken only by footsteps in 3/4 timea counterpoint to the river’s rumbling rhymenorth towards the black runes the path windslazy nostalgia pervades through mud and leaves.

Rome is old, an ageless lady far from graceher skin so richly oiled glistens in the sunmy reflection hides behind her eyeshides there too the decay and miserycracked against ancient stones,the smell of listless hope and stale passionmix in morning’s rising heata crumbled altar of ruins on top of ruinson top of ruins

Jogging upstream past sharp shards of marbleblack history punching through the trees.The Tiber lifts and lopesindifferent to the blood and dragged chattelsthat tumble down the broad shouldersabove its path.

The river turns and scrapespast mounds of concrete and tumbling carsunder boats and metal drumsa fierce ruler of the earth.Dreams and memoriescarry the stream through fog and history,mocking men, mockingtheir rage and paltry loves.It eyes the sky above to the cloudsrebirthed from a sunbeyond the power of men’s gods.

Dennis R. Kolakowski– Poems with art to be published at POETRY PACIFIC & INDIANA VOICE JOURNAL (only recent submissions other than SCARLET LEAF REVIEW). Short stories, essays and poetry published throughout the 70’s and 80’s. Screenplays throughout the past ten years. Member of the Pennsylvania Outdoor Writers Association, mechanical engineering graduate of Penn State and facilities manager for Pittsburgh Center for the Arts, Pittsburgh Filmmakers, University of Pittsburgh Applied Research Center and Allegheny County Medical Examiner’s Office. Please see www.sleepingdragonproductions.com.

I rode shotgun that nightwhen a teenage tornadomooned the fast-food parking lotfrom the backseat,Then we blew out of townwith no onein pursuit.

I didn’t know back thenthe severe negotiationsthat come into playwith human memoryresponsible now for nameless faceswho would not believeany of us would everlet chrome wheels rust,drive an automatic,or wear a seat belt,ever.

A fastback finds a resting placeanchored by flat tires,haunted by field mice,paralyzed in a final traffic jam.

But don’t tell me she’s without a driver,dead friends and fatherstell me different.

Water’s Edge18” x 24”Oil on CanvasbyBud Gibbonsfrom the collection of the artist